Page 103 of Bookish Girl’s Emergency Contact Is a Lycan King

Oh, I think.

Oh.

Through the bond, I feel him feeling me too. My love, reflected back at me through his perception, sharper than I realized, fiercer than I knew. The terror that underlies it, the fear of loss that I’ve been carrying since my parents died. And the hope. The stubborn, ridiculous hope that refuses to die no matter how many times life has tried to crush it.

I’m crying. He’s crying. We’re both crying, tears mixing on our cheeks, and somehow we’re also laughing, breathless, disbelieving laughter at the absurdity and the perfection of this moment.

“I can feel you,” he manages. “I can… you’re everywhere. You’re everything.”

“I know.” I press my forehead to his. “I feel you too.”

“This is real.”

“This is real.”

“You chose me.”

“I chose you.” I wipe the tears from his cheeks with my thumbs. “Was it worth the wait?”

“Worth everything.” His voice breaks. “Worth three hundred years. Worth a thousand more. Worth whatever comes next.”

“Hopefully what comes next involves less standing in the snow.”

He laughs again, that surprised, delighted sound, and I feel his joy beat through the bond in time with my pulse.

“I can carry you back.”

“I can walk.”

“I know you can.” He adjusts his grip, holding me closer. “But I just bonded with my mate. I’m allowed to be clingy.”

“For how long?”

“Forever, probably.”

“That seems excessive.”

“You signed up for this.”

I did. I really, truly did.

He carries me back to the house, and I let him.

Not because I can’t walk, I can, despite the barefoot run through the snow, but because it feels right. Because his arms are warm and his chest is solid and through the bond I can feel how much he needs this. How much he needs to hold me, protect me, prove to himself that I’m real and here and his.

Ours, I correct through the bond.

Ours, he agrees.

The walk back takes us along the edge of the clearing, where the gathering has collapsed into a bonfire party. Someone has produced instruments. Someone else has produced a truly irresponsible quantity of cider. The whole pack is in the loose, glowing mood that follows disaster averted, and we make it ten feet past the tree line before the first head turns.

Then another. Then a dozen. Nostrils flare. Conversations die mid-sentence. A knowing ripple moves through the crowd, and every single face swings toward us wearing a grin.

“Why is everyone looking at…” I stop. I look at Orion. I look at the crowd. I look at Orion. “They can SMELL it?!”

“The claim announces itself.”

“It ANNOUNCES itself?!”